Intermission
by irite
Summary: What happened when Natasha picked up her shoes in that warehouse, until the time she met Bruce. How she compartmentalized and prioritized her mission over what she wanted to feel.


**My beta, dysprositos, is betatastic.**

**WARNING: some dark thoughts.**

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Natasha picked up her heels in one hand, her phone in the other, and walked out of the now-quiet warehouse.

She confirmed her travel arrangements with Coulson, and when he asked, "Are you okay, Natasha?" in a concerned tone, she felt just conflicted enough to give him a straight answer.

"No, I'm not. But _we'll get him back_." She dared Coulson to argue with the finality of that statement.

He didn't, simply telling her to have a safe flight and be careful, and to let him know once she was approaching the Eastern Seaboard so he could send her the Helicarrier's most recent coordinates.

She agreed and hung the phone up, returning to the local safe house where she scrubbed off her too-heavy makeup and pulled on comfortable clothing before going to the airport and boarding her flight to Calcutta.

On the plane, her first order of business was to fill out the mission paperwork for the interrogation she had been conducting when Coulson called.

Once that was submitted, she leaned back into her seat and indulged the melancholy thoughts that had been running through the back of her mind since she first heard the words, 'Barton's been compromised.'

It wasn't a pretty picture, her future without Clint. She knew that. Once upon a time, he'd dragged her, kicking and screaming, out of the muck that had been her past life. He'd helped her stand up and take a good look at the wasteland around her. He made her see how far she'd strayed from what was right, and he made her _want_ to do what she did now.

He was her touchstone, her anchor. And with that ripped out from under her, she was bereft.

Clint was her best friend. Her _only_ friend, if she was honest with herself. The only person who had seen her at her lowest point and celebrated with her at her highest. The only person she trusted as much as she trusted herself.

The person who made her _want_ to be good. And that's what scared her the most, the thought of what she would do without Clint there to ground her.

Natasha knew what she was capable of, she was no fool. She knew the blood that dripped from her ledger, knew the dark shadows of her past.

And she knew how _exhilarating_ it was, to have a man's life in the palm of her hand, and have the _power_ to snuff it out.

To _want_ to kill him. Or her. Natasha wasn't picky.

And Clint had helped her balance that side of herself, helped her manage the aggression, and when she couldn't control it anymore, he had been a target, letting her push the boundaries of 'friendly' sparring until she felt better. Time and time again, he'd been there for her, helping to support her, and she'd done the same for him, when the specters of his past haunted him.

Now she'd gotten complacent, didn't know what she would do without him.

She let herself wallow in a way she'd _never _indulged in before until the flight attendant announced that they were about thirty minutes out, and then she shook her head firmly and banished those dark thoughts.

Loki had taken Clint, and she _would_ get him back, and well, if she did some damage to Loki in the process, no one could fault her.

In control of herself, she prepared for the descent into the Calcutta airport, packing up her belongings and turning off her electronics.

After the plane landed, Natasha first had a rendezvous with the team of local agents Coulson had texted her about. She didn't think she needed backup, but he was insistent, and she gracefully acquiesced to his pressure.

Honestly, though, the thought of the _uncontrolled rage_ pent up inside Banner was a little frightening, to say the least, and she wouldn't mind having someone, or rather, someone_s_ backing her up.

_They're not the right__ people__ to be doing that, though_, her mind whispered, but she quickly tamped that down. She was focused on the matter at hand, couldn't waste time thinking about the silent shadow who usually had her back.

She met the team, talked to the leader, and explained what they needed to do, as succinctly as possible. No need to alarm the troops, after all.

"I'm meeting with an asset, and although he's got a good handle on it, he's got...temper issues. So we'll be on comms," she indicated the leader and herself, "and if it starts going sideways, I want you to move in. If not, well, I'd rather he not know you're there at all."

They seemed to understand, and she exchanged contact information with the leader of the squad. She told him that she would contact him after she scouted out the locations to let him know where to be.

He agreed, and she left, depositing her bag in one of the SHIELD choppers in the hangar on her way out of the facility. She'd flown commercial from Russia, but they didn't want Banner on a plane with civilians, and she couldn't blame them for that. So she would pilot a small, two-man helicopter back to America, and Banner would be a cooperative passenger.

At least, that was the plan.

Dressed in a long skirt and tank top, a money belt around her waist, she headed out to look at the locations Coulson had forwarded her from their locations manager in the area. The first two didn't check out, too close to the main center of the city, but the third one was perfect, on the outskirts of town with adequate cover for the support team.

For a moment, a bit of superstition that she'd heard somewhere, 'third time's the charm,' floated across her mind, before she dismissed it as silly and pulled out her phone to text the squad leader.

He said they'd be in position in an hour, and she set out to find Banner and a means of getting him to the location she'd chosen.

Wandering the streets, she caught rumors of the 'shadow doctor,' and well, there was only one person who _that_ description fit. She wandered down the streets, keeping an ear on the vendors, and when she saw a stall with several children playing nearby, she seized her opportunity.

Banner was a notorious do-gooder, and if he was approached by a child in need of his help, he wouldn't decline. It would be the perfect means of getting him away from the crowded city center.

Casually strolling over to the stall, which sold clothing, she selected a shawl, listening to the children's conversation.

As she was paying for the shawl, Natasha hit paydirt. One of the urchins, a little girl, was apparently about to have to leave her home, as her father had gone missing and her mother couldn't support the family on her own.

It was likely that the girl would be desperate enough for money that she wouldn't question Natasha's...unorthodox orders, so, draping the shawl carefully around her shoulders, Natasha walked over to the group.

She pointed to the girl, and asked, point-blank, "Want to earn some money?" in the girl's native language.

Suspiciously, the child looked her up and down. "How much?"

Natasha made a generous offer. She was a little of a bleeding heart, couldn't stand to see children in such circumstances, not after the issues of her own childhood.

The girl's face lit up for a second before she, already a canny tradeswoman at so young an age, squashed the emotion down and said, "For what?"

"Not here," Natasha replied, and the child got up, leaving her friends, and followed Natasha without a second glance.

On the edge of town, Natasha explained, "I need to talk to the man you call the 'shadow doctor.' Do you know him?"

"Sure, everyone does."

"But I don't want him to know who wants to talk to him. I just want him to think it's a regular person who needs his help. Understand?"

The girl nodded. "Yes."

"So here's half the money I owe you, and I want you to fetch him and bring him to this house," Natasha showed the child a picture on her cell phone, "where the rest of your money, and a little bonus, will be on the table. All you have to do is grab it and run. I'll do the rest. Okay?"

"Yes. I know this house, and I know where to find him."

"I want you to tell him that your father is sick, very sick, and you need him to come immediately. Then bring him to that house."

"Yes. I can do that." The girl moved to leave, but Natasha had one last warning.

"Be careful with that money, I don't want anyone to steal it from you."

The look the girl gave Natasha implied she was an idiot of the highest order, and then the girl was gone, running swiftly back into town, the money tucked into her shirt.

Natasha couldn't help but smile; it had been so long since she'd been properly, deservingly insulted.

Then she turned and hurried back to the location, placing the girl's money on the table and securing a handgun to the bottom of it. She didn't think it would do much if things went south, but it was added security, and it helped her to feel more in control of the situation.

Switching on the comm unit in her ear, she confirmed that the support team was in position, and cautioned them to stay out of sight when the girl brought a man in. The girl was to be allowed to leave, too, she made sure to instruct.

All of that settled, Natasha sat in a dark corner to wait for the girl and Banner to arrive.

She determinedly did _not_ think of Clint.

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**Reviews are always nice.**


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